9 February 2013

“There is no stability in this world. Who is to say what meaning there
is in anything? Who is to foretell the flight of a word? It is a balloon
that sails over tree-tops. To speak of knowledge is futile. All is
experiment and adventure. We are forever mixing ourselves with unknown
quantities. What is to come? I know not. But, as I put down my glass I
remember; I am engaged to be married. I am to dine with my friends
tonight. I am Bernard.”

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What sort of diary should I like mine to be? Something loose-knit and yet not slovenly, so elastic that it will embrace anything, solemn, slight or beautiful, that comes into my mind. I should like it to resemble some deep old desk or capacious hold-all, in which one flings a mass of odds and ends without looking them through. I should like to come back, after a year or two, and find that the collection had sorted itself and refined itself and coalesced, as such deposits so mysteriously do, into a mould, transparent enough to reflect the light of our life, and yet steady, tranquil compounds with the aloofness of a work of art. The main requisite, I think, on reading my old volumes, is not to play the part of a censor, but to write as the mood comes or of anything whatever; since I was curious to find how I went for things put in haphazard, and found the significance to lie where I never saw it at the time.